What's he on about now?

In case the articles, essays and opinions throughtout this site just weren't enough for you, here's my online diary (a.k.a. 'blog'). It's as close as you'll come to the inside of my head, so don't say I didn't warn you
(and remember, you can always e-mail me if you love or loathe anything you're about to read)...


   Tuesday, November 27, 2007

   CAN'T GET HER OUT OF MY HEAD

Still feeling sickly after anything I eat. No fun.

Nothing like impulse shopping to cheer myself up and hey, X the new Kylie Minogue album is here. Braving a sudden and intense blizzard that hit for (I kid you not) five minutes (and just the five my dog and I happened to be outside), I ran to Sunrise records and picked it up.

I got a funny email from my friend Mark, who wrote:

You're really going to go and buy a CD? Really? Are you living in 1999? Well, enjoy your compact disc. Just don't try to play it on your 8-track, luddite! :)

I replied that I can pirate as easily as the next man but the people I love get my money. Make a CD, DVD or book that moves me in some way and I will happily hand over my money. Besides, after all this time, there's still a spark of pleasure in tearing open the plastic wrap, opening the jewel case and placing the new disc in the tray and hitting play.

I bought Kylie's CD because I think she deserves my money. Not that X is essential, of course; it's all totally predictable, utterly disposable electro-pop but damn, these songs are fun and sometimes you just want a cheeseburger. I especially love this one:


Kylie -- "Like a Drug"

It's hilarious -- the lyrics are a cliché-a-thon of dancefloor cheese but still that irresistible synth line and sugary chorus just makes me want to get all sorts of inappropriate.

Why do I give Kylie a pass on the nasal-voiced sex kitten purr that makes Britney look so ridiculous to me? I think it's her age (all this "woman of experience" vibe is far more credible coming from a late-thirty-something), her looks (she's a gorgeous late-thirty-something) and her silence. As a pop star, Kylie is a throwback to an earlier era where we don't have to hear about her every rehab stint, redneck boyfriend or opinion on the Middle East peace process. Kylie just gets on with making fun music.

Oh, and if she decides she wants to act again and signs on for Doctor Who?
Even better!

Labels: music, technology, tributes

One of the many joys of living in Toronto (assuming you've got the cash for it) is the plethora of singers and bands who make it a stop in their world tours. (Bruce Springsteen may have added a Hamilton date this week but he's still in the minority.)

So I was pleased last night to go see Australian pop singer Ben Lee play at the Mod Club. At the age of 29, he's a pop veteran, having released his first album with his early band Noise Addict when he was 15. My old friend Josh introduced me to his music back when we were flatmates and Lee was a teen grunge boy, his songs sounding like Liz Phair and namedropping the Pixies whenever possible.

These days, Lee's lightened up considerably, going for a heartfelt Jack Johnson kind of vibe. There's nothing new here, just a classic guitar-pop sound, and his 2005 album, Awake is the New Sleep, is one of my favourites -- stuffed with catchy hooks, charming lyrics and quirky instrumentation. Through the magic of YouTube, here's the boy at work last night:


Ben Lee - 'Into the Dark' (live at the Mod Club, Toronto)

What I love about this is the way Lee's precociously cute sing-along smacks right up against Toronto's icy refusal to never, ever show enthusiasm. I've witnessed so many train wrecks in Toronto concert halls, the squirmy result of artists trying to force the jaded crowd to give back. My favourite examples:

-- Peter Gabriel, who tried to lead a Euro-football-stadium-style chant to an Air Canada Centre crowd that resolutely refused to get on its feet. Scowling at us, he proceeded to lie down on the stage, fold his fingers together over his chest and stay that way until the worried crowd got to its feet to see if he was alright. He then bounced up and resumed his demand for chanting.

-- Bruce Springsteen (only days after that at the same venue), who had to announce to Toronto that, "We are having a HOUSE PARTY! And the FIRST RULE of the house party is that you have to get up off your ASS! You're not that old! GET UP!" This from a 53-year-old man who'd been racing back and forth across the stage, even up on a piano, for the last two hours. Shameful.

-- Chumbawamba, who did their punk-pop left-wing-anarchy thing with a full horn section and numerous costume changes to a Warehouse crowd that sullenly stood waiting for That One Song. When the band finally began, "We'll be singing..." the crowd gave up the screams and applause it'd been withholding for the last hour.

-- Mr. Bungle, who perhaps unwisely denied the Opera House audience the manic carnival heavy-metal of their first album in favour of the atmospheric prog-rock of their second. The crowd just stood there through song after song and the passive-aggressive battle between the band and its own fans peaked when singer Mike Patton announced, "Fuck it -- let's give you what you want," and launched into a pitch-perfect rendition of "Working For the Weekend" by Loverboy. The crowd roared with delight, while I looked around, feeling like Kevin McCarthy in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Couldn't anyone see how cruelly we were being mocked? During the cheesy guitar solo, Patton raised his fist in the air and screamed, "Canadian ROCK!"

By the end of his show, Ben Lee was standing on a Mod Club bartop, strumming his guitar and encouraging the crowd to sing along to his up-with-people anthem, "We're All In This Together." Half the crowd (mostly men) resisted entirely, creating an awkward vibe, though I'm not quite ready to condemn them like Peter Gabriel just yet.

I love "We're All In This Together" but, well, it is a bit TOO cute and worse yet, it's become inescapable after being licensed for a Telus commercial. Yuck. Licensing music for commercials has become the only way for a lot of bands to get heard nowadays and Lee himself jokes in another song, "They don't play me on the radio." Instead, he's shopped himself out to Hollywood, his music the kind of happy light-rock perfect for TV show endings or upbeat movie trailers (like this ad for Heroes airing in Australia).

So it's not entirely inappropriate that Lee has become loathed by hard rockers and Pitchfork critics but, hey, sometimes a feel-good record should make you, you know, feel good. As he puts it:

I think people like to hear a songwriter that reflects the realness of being a human being and at the end of the day, I leave my audience hopefully with the fact that it's worth it. And just to keep giving some hope.

See? That's the kind of statement that just makes you want to slap him.
But secretly? I kinda like it.

Labels: Australia, music, Trawna, tributes

There's a charming interview with David Lynch in Entertainment Weekly on this week's release of the beautiful "gold box" DVD set of my favourite TV show, Twin Peaks (oh how I need this!). Lynch explains how the series was hobbled in mid-stream by the network's panicky insistence on wrapping up the show's central mystery as quickly as possible:

"[The] question of what happened to Laura Palmer was the goose that laid the golden egg. Then ABC asked us to snip the goose's head off, and it killed the goose."

This is ironic to me for two reasons: first, ABC is now the home of Lost, a maddening show that has remained popular over three seasons by constantly unveiling more mysteries than it solves.

Second, and more important, is the example of artists treated badly by their business partners. Companies like ABC are now panicking over the writers' strike set to begin on Monday. There's been some terrific new TV this fall (I'm loving Life and Reaper) but it's all about to dry up for quite some time because producers can't see why they should share profits from DVD and Internet versions of shows with the writers who created them. They argue that the whole Internet distribution thing is so new, there's no guarantee they'll make any money from it. This thought obviously occurred to them while passing the owners of Amazon and Google panhandling for change on Sunset Boulevard.

Here's the point: since I won't be buying the Twin Peaks set just yet (not until someone can explain to me why this brand-new product is $90 in Canada and $65 in the States), I decided to soothe my lust by buying the fabulous new soundtrack album from iTunes. I could have easily found it for free on the BitTorrent sites but I happily paid the ten bucks and had it playing on my computer within a few minutes. The network people, along with the movie studio executives, record industry thugs and software developers, don't understand this because they view their customers as potential criminals. They refuse to understand if you treat talented people badly and fill the marketplace with crap, the public will respond with the same amount of respect, no matter how many "you're a pirate thief" ads they place before the movie begins.

David Lynch created a weird and wonderful little series and I'm happy to reward him for it...well, him and the pack of corporate weasels who killed the golden goose but still get 95% of its egg. Stay strong at the bargaining table, Writers Guild of America!

Labels: media, music, technology, TV, writing

[also printed in issue 327 of fab]

Earlier this summer I went with a group of friends to the True Colors concert tour, organized by Cyndi Lauper and featuring Erasure, Debbie Harry and the Dresden Dolls. It aimed to entertain and inspire people to fight for gay rights and, for us, it succeeded wildly—-except in one case.

As the lead singer of Blondie and an actress in cult favourites like the original Hairspray, Debbie Harry is a pop icon, no question. But when she meandered out on stage in a black pantsuit and a short haircut that made her seem like a rockin’ Hillary Clinton, Debbie changed the whole tone of the show. As she tore through a set of unfamiliar and uninspired tracks from her upcoming album, Debbie made it clear that the other performers may have been there to celebrate us gays but she was there to have the gays celebrate her.

But why would she try harder? We gay men have always been loyal to our divas. Too loyal. Martha Wash and Crystal Waters played Toronto Pride this year. Straight people have pretty much forgotten who these women are, but not us. We love them so much, we ignore the fact that neither singer has done anything new or interesting in nearly two decades. Just like Gloria Gaynor, recently quoted saying she loves gay people and wants to "lead them to Jesus." Okay, just as long as she sings "I Will Survive" on the stairway to heaven.

Madonna is, of course, the gold standard of gay pop diva. The Advocate magazine named her the biggest gay icon of all time and her pioneering efforts to include us have made her a hero to two generations of gay men, even the ones who say, "Judy who? Barbra what?" But we must remember that our relationship with Madonna is symbiotic. She was created and maintained by the talents and hard work of many gay men—-producers, stylists, musicians, dancers. Like Cher, she is a bionic woman—-super-strong, made of plastic and built by us. Our talents, our money, our loyalty. Cyndi Lauper understands this. Her tour helped raise money for gay rights advocacy because, as religious and political authorities fight to undermine our lives, she wants to repay her gay fans with a bit more help than Christina Aguilera telling us we’re beautiful.

But what do I know? Personally, I’ve always loved Kylie. She makes the kind of campy disco records the boys love and merrily refers to her stylist William Baker as her "gay husband." She’s built up so much good will, she could cook and eat the little gay boy on Ugly Betty and I’d still line up to buy her next album.

Labels: fab, homo-a-go-go, music, tributes

After all the boosting I did for the premiere of Torchwood last fall, it would seem a bit odd that I never brought it up again, no? Well, picking on it would be like hitting a puppy that's just peed on the carpet. It just didn't know any better.

It's not that Torchwood was bad, per se -- the first two episodes were fine, the last two terrific, but there were nine in the middle that ran the gamut from interesting to dreadful. It's as though the show that was billed as 'Doctor Who for adults' was so bent on matching its parent's incredibly-flexible storytelling format that it forgot to establish any kind of identity first.

Episodes included a police investigation into a decades-old rape/murder case, a Texas Chainsaw Massacre gorefest, a quirky mystery involving the ghost of a bumbling loser, a Fight Club with aliens, and a couple of doomed love affairs -- one straight, one gay. The writers were so busy showing how Torchwood could do anything that it didn't always do it well.

All of this would be forgivable if the characters weren't having the same problem. 51st-century omnisexual con man Captain Jack Harkness had made a great foil for the upright and asexual Doctor, mainly due to the great charm of John Barrowman, who turned a character that could've been smug and smutty (especially on a children's show!) into someone heroic, endearing and fascinating. Giving Jack his own show, turning him loose on modern times, was a saucy and hilarious idea but, as leader of Torchwood, Captain Jack was suddenly solemn and angst-ridden. Being trapped on Earth had apparently given him a joy-ectomy.

As for the rest of the gang, this group of super-secret alien hunters working "outside the government, beyond the United Nations" displayed some maddeningly-stupid behaviour. These five nitwits are responsible for the fate of mankind? That was the scariest thing on the show! Burn Gorman's character was staggeringly unlikable yet dominated the screentime, while Naoko Mori was given nowhere near enough to do. Ditto for cute Welsh actor Gareth David-Lloyd whose character proved most frustrating. He blames Jack (in part) for the death of his girlfriend in episode four and is seen mourning her in the next three episodes. Then, in episode eight, there's a last scene with some heavy innuendo that he and Jack are having sex. Their romance seems to carry on from there. Normally, I'd be pleased but I just can't stop thinking, where did THAT come from?

I suppose it was inevitable that a show that promised to fill the TV void left by The X-Files, Angel AND Queer as Folk could only disappoint, but it's painful to watch a show you want to love but can't quite (I'm having a similar issue with Battlestar Galactica this year). I think a lot of Torchwood's problems come from the fact that it was rushed onto our screens in a fit of enthusiasm following the massive success of Doctor Who. Despite everything I've said, the spin-off was a ratings hit of its own, thankfully, so there will be a second season in January 2008. I'm hoping the extra time will allow the writers to tighten up the scripts. Sure, it's just TV but, with shows like BSG and Heroes raising the bar on this kind of stuff (and, in the latter case, in a big way), we fanboys just want Torchwood to work. Right now, the 'show for adults' is more of a show for 15-year-olds -- I suppose there's nothing wrong with that but, with the talent Torchwood has behind it, they really should aim higher.

But just to show there's no hard feelings, to prove that I really do love the strange little show, I edited together another one of my YouTube bits -- consider it the sports highlight reel:



Now here's a silly postscript: I edited that to one of those angst-rock songs by The Calling that somehow seemed to fit perfectly with the theme of the show but, after doing so, I played around with iTunes and found other songs of a similar length. Since your average pop song format is pretty strict -- verse-chorus-verse with a 4/4 beat -- I turns out that a disturbing number of songs fit my little trailer quite well! I tried out Queen, AC/DC (ha ha) and Franz Ferdinand, before getting loopy with Ella Fitzgerald, the Sex Pistols, a James Bond song and, of course, the requisite Big Gay Version.

After all that, I got frightened and had to stop. It's fun to see how a different tune can completely alter the mood and pace of the imagery but more than a little depressing to see how Lego-like all this video and music have become. One more reason to hope a Welsh sci-fi bisexual cop show can break the mold!

Labels: Doctor Who, MeTube, music, TV

I can't say I'm a fan of the Killers but they've got potential, and it's been interesting watching this young band either
a) experiment with a wide range of sounds in order to develop their own, or
b) rip off the sounds of many other bands in order to develop their own.

Depends on how charitable you're feeling, I suppose.

Their first album Hot Fuss was a stew of 80s new wave pop influences with a hint of 70s glam-rock gender-bending. Quite fun, mostly pointless. Now, lead singer Brandon Flowers (his real name!) freely admits that he listened to a lot of Bruce Springsteen while writing their latest album Sam's Town, which leans towards the classic rock. Damned however if the new single "Read My Mind" doesn't sound a whole lot like pre-Achtung U2. When the video hits its Big Pop Chorus, it seems Tokyo is where the streets have no name:



But I give the lads some credit -- their songs are catchy, they're stealing from all the right people, and they asked the Pet Shop Boys to remix the new song (Flowers is a big fan) which I find very peculiar and somehow endearing. So maybe third time's the charm. I'll give 'em another chance. After all, Fountains of Wayne have been ripping off Cheap Trick and the Cars for years and I'm still fond of them:

Labels: Bruce Springsteen, music, Pet Shop Boys, the 70s, the 80s

Good news out of New Orleans:
"Mardi Gras seems more normal this year. Well, as normal as Mardi Gras can be."

In the face of the sickeningly-slow pace of reconstruction, it's great to see Nola slowly getting her mojo back. I'm looking forward to the moment when this sentimental number from the great Billie Holliday (in the 1947 film New Orleans) returns to being lovely, instead of poignant:

Labels: America, music, repair

But it's not all ranting -- I've been bopping around town to the debut album by 24-year-old Mika -- Lebanese-born, British-raised and Freddie-Mercury-inspired. Life in Cartoon Motion sounds like its title -- it's pure giddy dance-pop, with a dizzying mix of styles and influences. This lead-off single "Grace Kelly" is one of the less-catchy tunes sung by this kid with a golden voice:

Labels: England, music, silliness

Now that cheap editing software has made it simple for even Luddites like me to tinker with songs and movies, while the Internet has made it simple to broadcast the results, the "mash-up" is becoming a great source of fun and fascination. There are legal issues, financial issues, ethical issues and artistic issues, all wrapped up in one clever little mp3 or YouTube.

As always, first comes the silly: I once heard a track that put Tom Jones' vocals from "Kiss" over "Funkytown" by Lipps Inc. It was literally better than both songs put together. Then the track that used the Dandy Warhols' guitar riffs to turn the cheesy dance song "Horny" into something joyous. Then the mash-ups got smarter. In 2004, The Grey Album's controversial-but-brilliant blend of the Beatles' White Album and Jay-Z's The Black Album (duh!) by DJ Danger Mouse was banned, while American Edit from 'Dean Gray' performed a public service by revealing exactly where the chord changes in Green Day's American Idiot came from (Oasis, the Doctor Who theme and, whoa, Glen Campbell -- who knew?).

A San Francisco DJ calling himself Earworm has practically conquered the bastard genre, with songs comprised of over a dozen others. My favourite is "Stairway to Bootleg Heaven" which puts (get ready) Laurie Anderson, the Art of Noise, Eurythmics, the Beatles, Pet Benatar, the Beastie Boys and Dolly Parton(!) through the wringer. As Truman Capote famously said of Jack Kerouac, "That's not writing, that's typing." In true open-source tradition, Earworm has published a mash-up how-to guide so others can play in the sandbox as well. But will he share the profits from his book? That's what artists and the record companies would like to know.

Assuming their opposition is more than merely financial (I'm generous that way), I assume record companies are upset at how easily these kind of remixes reveal the limitations of pop music. Let's face it -- most rock and pop tracks really DO sound the same and are easily blended. But didn't the mighty Ramones teach us that back in the late '70s? They took their parents' classic pop-rock style, sped it up and spit it back at them. They recorded an album with girl-group guru Phil Spector, for Joey's sake! Mash-ups are just the latest way of showing that pop culture is just a stack of Lego bricks. There's lot of colours and shapes but they can all fit together. Every kid has played with Lego, I think every kid should play with Lego, and some of them turn out to be architects because of it.

And if not? Well at least they're having fun. There's a UK outfit called Thriftshop XL that does great tweaks of music videos. They've sent Justin Timberlake back to 1992 and made a strong case for the Knack suing Franz Ferdinand, with Run-DMC as the lawyers. And then there's this -- a track so gloriously silly, I can't get enough of it:



Is a track like this an act of destruction or creation? Perhaps the best recent example was the now-legendary re-edited trailer for The Shining that stripped away the horror elements and added happy audio to make Stanley Kubrick's film seem like a family comedy. I discovered a pair of YouTube bits that hilariously pit Doctor Who against his most terrifying foe -- the French -- and make the high-seas hero Horatio Hornblower campier than Liberace. What was once some of my favourite TV is now something I'll have a hard time watching without snickering. Again, are these edits acts of vandalism -- or creativity?

I ask these questions because I'm now as guilty as anyone. Since discovering video editing software, I've been playing with the Lego bricks, too. The results have been quite cute (a jolly tribute to the original and still best Queer as Folk), rather peculiar (a Cyberman video for the Pet Shop Boys' sinister track "Integral") and now somewhat unsettling. Where the notion came from, I simply have no idea, but I felt compelled to combine Terry Gilliam's dark masterpiece on bureaucracy and terrorism with the bombastic giddiness of (God help and forgive me) the Electric Light Orchestra -- it's "Mr. Blue Sky Goes To Brazil":



And this is where the debates came in. Did I just ruin a brilliant film with musical cheese? Or did I taint a beloved '70s pop tune with creepy imagery? Or both? Could I be sued for this? Don't I deserve to be? Or will anyone just appreciate it for the peculiar and silly trifle it is?
Questions, questions...

Labels: MeTube, music, technology

In all my TV-party glee yesterday, I never stopped to consider the lives of those without high-speed Internet. For them, YouTube is a torture. Hell, even my "ultra high-speed" service chokes up on them from time to time.

With that in mind, here's the links to the stuff I've posted lately:

Videos I've created

Thursday, September 22, 2006
Me and my little dog hit the streets

Doctor Who: 43 years, 10 Doctors, 5-and-a-half minutes
The greatest TV show ever, in a nutshell

Integral: Pet Shop Boys vs. Cybermen
The British government's ID scheme gets a sci-fi disco takedown

Videos I've posted

Pet Shop Boys: It's a Sin
live from the Hummingbird Centre, October 11

Nina Simone: Feeling Good
The way-cool promo for Six Feet Under season four

Nina Simone: If You Knew
A beautiful little gem

Stephen Colbert: The Word
Republican scandals explained with Russian dolls

Lily Allen: LDN
A delightful-yet-grim ode to London

Dane Cook: What men really want
It makes a kind of sense

Dancing
Where the hell is Matt?

D'Agostino supermarkets
Move closer!

Russell T. Davies on Torchwood
Starts Sunday! Can't wait!

Torchwood BBC 3 promo
Have I mentioned this?

Philip Olivier on Hollyoaks: In the City
It's not a crush, it's true love!

South Park: Trapped in the Closet
The boys take down Tom Cruise and the 'Church'

Jesus Camp
This lady keeps me up at night

The Daily Show: Tangled Up in Bleu
Jason Jones discusses gays in the military

Scissor Sisters: I Don't Feel Like Dancing
The '70s in a blender -- gorgeous!

Keith Olbermann: September 11th commentary
The man's on fire, and so very necessary

Labels: Doctor Who, England, MeTube, music, Pet Shop Boys, silliness, TV

I fear YouTube is making me soft.

For a man who calls himself a writer, there's been precious little writing lately! While I love my new job, I also worry that most of my energy has been going into improving the work of others rather than my own. I get home and there's nothing left. Plus, like I said, making these little YouTube clips has been great fun, a terrific distraction. It had to stop. So I decided to hold a little TV party here, showing you the stuff I've loved lately, before I hunker down and start working on the next article.

First up, I was blue for a day because a perfect storm of work, schedule and money conflicts kept me from catching the Pet Shop Boys' visit to Toronto last week. Having seen them twice now soothed the sting, but along comes a YouTuber named uccbob who apparently recorded the entire show in little 2:57 bursts. Shame about the sound but hey, look at that stage set...



The link I'd posted to a Six Feet Under promo a couple years back is long gone, so coming across it again feels like a little present. It's the only ad not included on the DVDs but, more importantly, it's a cool blast of Nina Simone...



This of course left me wanting more, and this one's a tiny gem...



I adored Stephen Colbert's brilliant visual aid explaining the media's coverage of Republican political scandals (Josh Marshall has been keeping a list of indictments and wow, it's even bigger than I thought!)...



Pixieish singer Lily Allen's new ode to London is utterly delightful and completely depressing at the same time -- just like the city itself...



There are smarter, funnier comics than fratboy Dane Cook but do they fight monkeys? I didn't think so...



I think everyone on Earth has now seen Matt dancing everywhere on it but, in case you haven't, give the guy a cheer...



I'll never travel that much, sadly, but my name is well-known in New York City, thanks to the D'Agostino supermarket chain. Move closer!



In a follow-up to my last post, here's Russell T. Davies talking about Torchwood -- I love that a guy writing a sci-fi show is so set on telling stories about ordinary people. I find his enthusiasm endearing and infectious...



And finally, my own little creation. I actually got an e-mail from someone who loved my Doctor Who video and asked me to make more! Flattered, I began thinking of a stream of Who videos I could craft but reason thankfully kicked in. While I would've absolutely adored and exhausted all this YouTube video editing stuff when I was a repressed and dorky teen, these days, I do have a life (okay, sort of). I just don't have the time.

So I decided to take everything I love about Doctor Who -- the character, the show, the institution -- and cram it all into one clip. Whether you love it, laugh at it or don't have a clue, consider this a tribute, a warning or a primer. I called it 43 years, 10 Doctors, 5-and-a-half minutes and it does what it says on the tin:



That's it! I'm spent! No more TV!
Well, except for Heroes, which Josh tells me I should be watching.
Oh, and Dexter, which looks nastily funny.
Oh, and Lost Of course.

Sigh.

Stephen King says that people are always asking him where he gets his ideas. I want to know how he writes 1400-word novels every month and still finds time to write essays on Veronica Mars!

Labels: Doctor Who, England, MeTube, music, Pet Shop Boys, Trawna, tributes, TV, writing

Since discovering the joys of YouTube, I've edited together a Doctor Who Pet Shop Boys video and slapped up a Daily Show clip of Jason Jones. Playing around with other people's videos just left me wanting to make my own, however, so I decided to bring along the camera on my last day working for the architects. Thursday, September 22 also happened to be the last day of summer, giving the whole thing a bittersweet quality, so I decided to jazz it up a little with some Shirley Bassey. Oh, enough explaining -- just watch!

Labels: introspective, MeTube, music, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist, working girl

The debut album from the Scissor Sisters was a gorgeous whirlwind of funk, disco and pop, all delivered with sassy flair and a big kiss to 70's-era Elton John. It did well in North America but was massive in the UK so expectations are high for their new second album which they drolly titled Ta-Dah.

I'm happy to say that I've been listening to it almost exclusively since Saturday and not only is nearly every song a delight, a couple of them have been growing on me since my first listen. The album is every bit as good as the first and the lead-off track, "I Don't Feel Like Dancing," is my favourite. It takes everything that was good about 70's music -- Elton John, country-pop, the Bee Gees, disco -- and compresses it all down to four minutes of pure giddiness! And the video is wildly strange:

Labels: music, silliness, the 70s

Oh, it's been too long since we've been able to mock Dan Quayle (a.k.a. George W. Bush 1.0). He hasn't been trying to teach children to spell incorrectly lately; he hasn't been picking fights with fictional TV characters. No, he's kept his special brand of idiocy out of the public eye these days, attending golf tournaments and quietly working behind the scenes on the frightening 'Project for a New American Century'. Spoilsport.

But now comes this report from the Mercury News, in which Danny Boy attended a concert by roots-rocker John Mellencamp, who shocked (shocked!) the ex-VP by speaking his mind:

Before launching into the song, Mellencamp told the Harveys casino crowd, in effect, that it was dedicated to everyone hurt by policies of the current Bush administration.

Quayle, who served as vice president for President Bush's father in 1989-93 walked out of the venue before Mellencamp finished the song.

Quayle said through a publicist: "Well, I think Mellencamp's performance was not very good to begin with, and the comment put it over the top."

Gosh, I hope his feelings weren't hurt too badly, but I have to wonder where the hell Dan's been for the past twenty years. Since the days when he was called John 'Cougar' by his ridiculous record company, Mellencamp's music has always been rootsy, man-of-the-people, left-of-centre folk-pop. His fans don't go to charity golf tournaments. An interview with Salon from 2003 recounts his brush with the new McCarthyism:

"The whole thing was surreal to me," says John Mellencamp. He's remembering the three-month period during the winter and spring when America was wrestling with the notion of war against Iraq. The roots-rocker found himself caught in the public fray after he released an antiwar song at the height of the debate, with some radio listeners comparing him to Osama bin Laden.

It was a startling charge for the Hoosier recently dubbed "Mr. Middle America" by ABC News. After nearly 30 years on the public stage, Mellencamp and his lunch-bucket rock and populist tales have come to signify heartland values like faith, hard work and, yes, a healthy skepticism toward authority. But anti-Americanism? "Get the fuck out of here," he scoffs.

And Quayle did, while Mellencamp was singing these lyrics:

The simple minded
And the uninformed
Can be easily led astray
And those that cannot connect the dots
Hey, look the other way

People believe what they want to believe
When it makes no sense at all
So be careful of those killing in Jesus's name
He don't believe in killing at all
Walk tall

Somewhere out in the distance
Is the death of you and me
Even though we don't think of it much
It's still out there for us to see

If you treat your life like a bar room fight
You'll die stinking of gin
No drunkards are allowed in heaven
No sinners will get in
Walk tall

So be careful in what you believe in
There's plenty to get you confused
And in this land called paradise
You must walk in many men's shoes

Bigotry and hatred are enemies to us all
Grace, mercy and forgiveness
Will help a man walk tall
So walk tall

Wow, that's some controversial stuff, there. "Isn't it funny?" Mellencamp asks, "A 51-year-old guy who's made as many records as I have can still piss off the right wing."

Labels: George W Bush, music, politics

As his career begins its third decade, the genius of Morrissey is that we've never really known if it's all been a joke or not. The Duke of Despair, the Sultan of Self-Loathing, he became an icon to a generation of self-absorbed black-clad teenagers growing up lost and lonely in the day-glo dismal 1980's.

Yet, as a mellow 21st-century adult, I listen to those Smiths albums and I still love them because they're so very, very funny. Take the lyrical crescendo from possibly their greatest song, "How Soon is Now?":

There's a club if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home and you cry
And you want to die

That over-the-top wallowing is shriekingly hilarious to me now and yet I'd be lying if I said there was never a night when I came home feeling exactly like that. When the world kicked you in the teeth, Morrissey was there. He understood. Even while, quite possibly, he knew how ridiculous such despair would seem in the light of the next morning. Total genius.

The secret to The Smiths' massive success was the way Johnny Marr piled on the friendliest of jangly guitar-pop while Morrissey's lyrics tugged the other way with outlandish moaning:

I know I'm unloveable
You don't have to tell me
I don't have much in my life
But take it - it's yours

After the Smiths broke up in 1987, many predicted Morrissey would flounder without Marr's talent but he proved to be a savvy judge of collaborators and issued a run of solid albums like 'Your Arsenal' and 'Vauxhall and I' until, somehow, that wisp of humour in his material faded.

Maybe it was the court case: Mike Joyce, former Smiths drummer, sued Morrissey and Johnny Marr in 1996 for royalties acknowledgement. The judge awarded him a million pounds in back royalties and branded Morrissey "devious, truculent and unreliable".
By 1998, 'the Mozzer' was writing songs like this:

You pleaded and squealed
And you think you've won
But Sorrow will come
To you in the end
And as sure as my words are pure
I praise the day that brings you pain

Meanwhile, England was now in love with itself -- celebrating 'BritPop' and 'Cool Britannia' with Oasis, Blur and the Spice Girls. Morrissey's brand of epic gloom was now decidedly out of favour. So he vanished, moved to LA and dropped out of the music scene he was starting to hate. Most of us fans fondly closed the book on a fine career.

Six years later, Morrissey suddenly reappeared -- stockier, healthier, greying at the temples and, well, older. It was a jarring sight but he had come back with 'You Are The Quarry' -- his boldest, sharpest, funniest, saddest album in a decade. All of his legendary solipsistic self-pity was in full effect -- "How Could Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel?" indeed -- but now there was a trace of anger, a newfound sense of purpose in his politics, notably in the bold-at-the-time "America is Not the World."

During a concert last summer, Morrissey announced that Ronald Reagan had just died and infamously added, "Bush should have died, not Reagan." Following that comment, he revealed earlier this year that "the FBI and the Special Branch have investigated me and I've been interviewed and taped and so forth. They were trying to determine if I was a threat to the government, and similarly in England. But it didn't take them very long to realise that I'm not."

But the most intriguing thing about 'Quarry' was that a couple of the songs sounded almost...happy. The jaunty rocker "First of the Gang to Die" was a odd little gift to his large Latino fanbase and the bubbly electronica of "I Like You" sounded like the closest thing to a pop love song we would ever get from him. Since announcing he was celibate way back in 1983, people had wondered if Morrissey was truly as miserably lonely as he proclaimed or if -- given all the homoerotic imagery threading through so many of his songs -- this was just a ploy to keep his closet door shut. In a candid 1992 interview, he said :

I feel completely open. If I met somebody tomorrow, male or female, and they loved me and I loved them, I would openly proclaim that I loved them, regardless of what they were...One of my physical encounters was with a man. That was 10 years ago. It was just a very brief, absurd and amusing moment. It wasn't love. I have never experienced that.

Until 'Quarry', he didn't seem to mind so much but the album's high-point was an epic confessional anthem, "I Have Forgiven Jesus":

Why did you give me so much desire
When there is nowhere I can go to offload this desire?
And why did you give me so much love in a loveless world
When there is no one I can turn to to unlock all this love?
And why did you stick me in self-deprecating bones and skin?
Jesus, do you hate me?

For perhaps the first time, Morrissey's despair seemed entirely genuine -- an anger at the world, the Church, himself, for a life spent without love.

Until now.


Morrissey's new album arrives this week -- with the crazy title 'Ringleader of the Tormentors' -- and it's the sound of a man who's apparently stopped "turning sickness into popular song" and embraced life. While his misanthropy is firmly intact -- "I see the world, it makes me puke" -- it's twisted through with declarations of love:

Can you stop this pain?
Even now in the final hour of my life
I’m falling in love again

That bit is set against pounding, apocalyptic kettle drums and a gorgeous string section. With the help of legendary Bowie & T-Rex producer Tony Visconti, Morrissey sounds more vital than ever and, in case we've missed the point, the final song is called "At Last I Am Born":

I once thought I had numerous reasons to cry
And I did, but I don’t anymore
Because I am born, born, born
...
I once was a mess of guilt because of the flesh
It’s remarkable what you can learn
Once you are born, born, born

It's shocking to hear Morrissey sing about being in love, being happy and -- frankly -- getting laid. "Dear God, Please Help Me" is a sort-of-sequel to "I Have Forgiven Jesus," only the despair has been erased by sex and love:

Then he motions to me
With his hand on my knee
Dear God, did this kind of thing happen to you?
...
And now I am walking through Rome
And there is no room to move
But the heart feels free
The heart feels free
The heart feels free

His voice soars. It's exhilarating because, having followed his career for so long, I know that if a miserable, self-absorbed, vain misanthrope like Steven Morrissey can learn to love at the age of 47, there's hope for any of us.

Labels: homo-a-go-go, music, the 80s, tributes

Software Architect Mark Russinovich caused a stir this week when his blog reported how Sony Music had briefly crippled his computer with copy-protection software on a CD he'd purchased.

Sony is now facing an onslaught of bad press -- all of it richly deserved. While they'll no doubt whine that their ridiculously-extensive FAQ gives their customers all the info they need, this little gem just about sums it up:

In order to get ATRAC files onto compatible devices, you must first use the MUSIC PLAYER application to import the files from the disc. From MUSIC PLAYER you can then export these files to ATRAC compliant jukebox software (supplied with ATRAC compatible portable devices). If you already have such a jukebox on your computer you may set MUSIC PLAYER to export the files directly to the jukebox. To do this please go to Menu -> Options -> Export within MUSIC PLAYER.

Now I'm not much of a techie but I do know my way around the average computer. Nevertheless, an EMI CD I bought a while back (Tina Turner, goddess) took me nearly an hour of fussing with before I could copy it into my MP3 player. Why is that a big deal? Because when one has paid over twenty dollars for that album, one should be able to listen to it in any way one chooses, dammit!

At least Tina was worth the effort -- it was worse when I later bought the new Dandy Warhols album and discovered that a) the disc came with irritating software I had to install just to play it, and b) the music itself was a slapped-together, self-indulgent, amateurish wankfest from a band I'd previously enjoyed (and Pitchfork was even harder on them). EMI took my money and made me work just to listen to an album that's crap.

Do I sound negative? Of course -- it's a negative trend. Record companies loudly wail about the money they're losing from illegal downloading but, as Matt Groening has joked, instead of making billions of dollars, they are only making millions. As it stands right now, the only people who are losing out are the loyal customers who've paid them money for a substandard product.

History has shown that if you treat people like criminals...well, in an entirely-unrelated story, I've become quite fond of a program called BitLord and a site called Seedler. They have a version of the new Kate Bush album that I'll be able to play on the subway. Sorry Sony, sorry EMI, but you need to learn a lesson dating back thousands of years: you reap what you sow.

Labels: music

...for the Yanks, anyway, but we're doing a little luncheon here at work for our many American colleagues who can't make it home. This morning I realized that we're exactly one month away from Christmas and had a slight panic attack so I turned things around by focusing on the holiday at hand, even if it isn't technically mine.

I was watching Woody Allen's "Manhattan" a couple weeks ago (what a beautifully-shot love letter to New York -- I swoon) and I enjoyed his "Why is life worth living?" list near the end. It got me thinking about my own list and US Thanksgiving is as good a day as any to jot some of it down (in no particular order):

-- Aretha Franklin, even the later stuff
-- time in a café with two friends and a good argument
-- watching a film that hits that sweet spot between intelligence and fun (they're rarer than one would think)
-- the Toronto skyline, especially at night
-- 90 minutes in the Niagara Butterfly conservatory
-- Shakespeare veterans (Olivier, Jacobi, Gielgud, Dench, Bloom, McKellen, even Branagh)
-- Dogs, especially terriers (cheers to Bruce McCullough!)
-- Gore Vidal essays and Thai food (both being sweet, savoury and salty all at once)
-- strange comparisons
-- "Memphis Soul Stew" from King Curtis' "Live at the Filmore"
-- those wonderful minutes after my niece first runs to hug me and before she starts barking demands at me (I love that pushy little creature!)
-- a fluffy bacon-and-cheddar omelette
-- finding a pharmacologist who's as dumb as a box of hair (actually, that's from Karen on "Will & Grace" but it's too good a line to pass by)
-- cute geeky guys (rarer than smart popcorn films, twice as great)
-- the emotional sweep of Tchaikovsky, who also gets me through Christmas every year
-- my friends and loved ones (too obvious to say yet not said enough)
-- replies to this blog from friends old and new (hint hint)
-- the "Every Sperm is Sacred" number from Monty Python's "The Meaning of Life"
-- making lists, apparently

See, now I'm just getting ridiculous so it's time to quit. Remember this list next time I'm grousing about something horrible (like the JFK video game!) and go make a list of your own, already!

Labels: family, friends, holidays, introspective, movies, music, Trawna

CAN YOU FEEL IT?
DEEP DOWN IN YOUR WALLET?

The timing isn't great but I can't seem to care -- during a particularly-tight money week, a special order I sent out months ago finally arrived at the store.

To be honest, I'd just about forgot about it, but the 4-CD set from Rhino Records called Soul Spectacular is worth the harsh reminder.

The first CD begins with Ray Charles' "What'd I Say (Parts 1 & 2)" and the fourth CD features Al Green's "Let's Stay Together". Do I need to go on?

Poorer but happier, I'm off to turn the lights low, the volume up...

Labels: money - lack thereof, music

THE INDESCRIBABLE WOW

As an early birthday gift to my friend James (and apparently myself), I picked up a pair of tickets to see Sam Phillips at the Lula Lounge last night. What can I say? She's my new diva.

Her gorgeous new album, "A Boot and A Shoe" is one-part cabaret, one-part blues revue -- stripped-down yet strangely lush -- and the show last night captured its mood perfectly. Sam was backed up by a keyboardist, a violin player and a drummer, all three superb.

The venue itself, by the way, is an out-of-the-way spot near Dundas and Dufferin but worth the hike -- a supper club reminiscent of the fifties with a "Havana martini" that rocks.

Now go check out that album!

Labels: friends, music

PACKED!
a day of greed, helicopters, revenge and karaoke

People I see occasionally (that being most of my friends...oy) will ask, "So what have you been up to lately?" and I'm forced to admit that the answer is work, work, work, and little of it rewarding in any spiritual, practical or financial sense. Actually, I usually just say, "Oh not much."

Today, however, I could change all that, as I packed a week or two worth of events into one evening. To start with, I had to leave work early at 3 pm so I could take the street car down to the Bathurst ferry docks. Universal Home Video had decided to hold its fourth-quarter product announcement party (translation: telling us what to flog at Christmastime) at the Island airport and, with my boss and DVD buyer Stan on vacation, he'd asked me to attend in his place.

After a ridiculously short ferry ride (the 'fixed-link' controversy is being held over this?), I arrived at the ridiculously tiny airport and was greeted by people in army camouflage pants and black T-shirts reading "TEU". Under the Universal/Alliance Atlantis logos on the back was their full designation, "Tactical Entertainment Unit." Uh-oh.

Surrounded by young media people aiming at glamour, I was led into a fenced-in area and offered drinks until the helicopers arrived. Seriously. Against the beautiful west-side view of the Toronto skyline, four helicopters came roaring in towards us and I hoped I wouldn't hear "Ride of the Valkyries" as they did. The wind whipped at us as the copters landed and smoke bombs and tiny explosions marked the entrance of two men in suits being rushed towards our gates by a group of TEU officers with rifles, presumably protecting them from those Warner Brothers bastards.

The two men gave a short welcome speech and then led the way into a large aircraft hanger filled with round dinner tables. A stage was set up in the corner with a podium and a projection screen, flanked by regular television sets. At the other end was a line-up of heated buffet trays with a group of waiters behind them and, above us, hung an array of movie posters for current and upcoming releases.

This was all very impressive. Then the guy in charge delivered the opening news that Vivendi Universal's merger with arms-dealing General Electric has gone through, forming NBC Universal (owners of Telemundo!). This new merger, he explained, will allow for an exciting new era in television-on-DVD programming, beginning with...(was that a drum roll?)..."The Apprentice" on August 24th, that irritating reality show that inflicted Donald Trump on us yet again. Among the DVD's many attributes, I was told, will be its "breakthrough packaging" design -- a sound chip that says -- he stopped and pointed at the crowd who yelled happily -- "You're fired!" I began to feel somewhat deflated.

The next 45-minutes consisted of movie trailers, PowerPoint marketing plans and terrible military-themed puns from the guy in charge. Most alarming was the wild applause in response to the news that "Shrek 2" has grossed up to $350 million dollars and that such successes for the company will lead to "what we all want more of...CASH!"

Wow, I thought, they're not even pretending to care about art anymore. I mean, no amount of clever marketing campaigns will excuse "Van Helsing" from being a godawful movie. And, while I welcomed the confirmation of a December 14th release of the fancy 4-disc version of Best Picture "Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King", the goodwill was drowned out by gushing tributes to the huge sales potential of movies like "The Terminal," "The Chronicles of Riddick" and "Thunderbirds" -- none of which have opened in theatres yet. I guess I'm just a crank to think that people should like the films before owning them.

I consoled myself by sitting with a lovely group of women from the Universal marketing team and we all enjoyed the truly amazing food from a catering outfit called "On the Move". As we all talked shop, one of the ladies admitted that they too hated the bilingual packaging of their products but insisted that it was necessary without knowing exactly why. I offered my theory of "DVD-customer-as-book-customer" (the parallels are scary!) and they were genuinely interested, which was nice.

By dessert, it was 6:30 pm and just about time for a helicopter ride. As corporate bribes go, this was pretty damn cool. I got to sit in the front seat beside the pilot, with the clear plastic under my feet, as we lifted up and headed past the CN Tower. The view was fantastic, even through yesterday's awful smog, and I asked the pilot if he still enjoyed it. "Every time," he said with a grin, "it's awesome!" As we circled back around Rosedale towards Jarvis and Bloor, I pointed and said, "I can legitimately say I can see my house from here!" The pilot shook his head. The flight back in just over the water was a bit tense (what if we crash?) but we landed gently about ten minutes after we'd left.

One of our own head office people (part of a table I'd quietly avoided) came up to ask me how the trip was and I gushed a little before moving into the requisite small talk. I took a deeper breath and said, "So...is this sort of winding down, then?" and he said, "Pretty much" -- my cue to flee!

My haste, you see, was encouraged by an offer from the very-cute Felipe, an acquaintance of mine who'd dropped by the store earlier that day to ask if I'd take his extra ticket to see British singer/songwriter Dido at the Hummingbird Centre. I called Filipe at quarter after seven to ask if he'd found someone else but no, so I met up with him at the door. He waved off any attempt on my part to pay for even some of the ticket price so I insisted on at least buying him a drink. He graciously accepted a vodka cooler and the Hummingbird's bars feature champagne by the glass so who could pass that up?

I thanked Filipe one more time as we walked through the marble lobby and he said, "Well, it's no big deal..." "Oh, I don't know," I said, "I'm strolling through a concert hall on a summer evening with a glass of champagne and a handsome man at my side -- this is about as good as it gets." He actually blushed at such smarm -- how cute is that?

The concert itself was great -- Dido on CD is mellow and vaguely electronic but the live show was surprisingly energetic, the lighting was fantastic and the girl herself was very funny. She introduced "See you when you're 40" as a song about a particular person which "you should never do as a songwriter -- it's such an abuse of power," she said before shrugging and telling us how she did it anyway. When the song ended, she warned the audience that, see, if anyone upsets Dido, she'll "write a really mellow song about you. That's about as angry as I get."

The concert wrapped up about quarter to eleven, just in time to join the entire record store gang at the Horseshoe Tavern on Queen, where our Tony was playing with his band, Fight Like Gentlemen. Filipe wanted to see Ruby but decided to head home. I tried to talk him out of it but, after an evening in his debt, felt I was in no position to badger.

In the space of a few hours, I'd gone from a glass of wine at the industry party to a glass of champagne at the concert hall to a bottle of Amsterdam Brown at the rock joint. I was pleased at how everything had worked out, even though the others were more drunk. Tony's band played a short set and were thankfully very fun and very loud, with a bit of a 60's power-pop thing going on.

Our lovely blonde Penny was rightly convinced that the Horseshoe bouncer wanted to remove her for being too drunk so we decided to move the party over to Milwaukee's where the gang goes every Tuesday night for "Extreme Karaoke." I never get to join them since I almost always work the door at my pub every Tuesday so I was happy to head over.

By now, it was about 12:30 am and the karaoke guy seemed a bit put-off by our gang pouring in. "Where were you guys at 11?" he grumped. Our security guard 'limeys' Dean and Brooke sang "A Day in the Life" together (Dean, I'm told, only sings Beatles songs) and I got to holler through Chris Isaak's "Baby Did A Bad, Bad Thing" in honour of our archeology student Sarah, leaving us last night for a summer placement on a dig in Egypt. Again, how cool is that?

I danced with Penny during one song, which greatly amused Alex and AJ, as she was very drunk by now and grinding all over me. I grinded back, pretending to be some hipster bisexual, but (sigh) such is not to be. The poor girl got no reaction from me and, hey, I was trying. By this point, it was clearly time to go so I dumped myself into a cab and rode home, wishing that Filipe wanted me as a boyfriend or that I wanted Penny as a girlfriend or that I simply get more days like this one.

Labels: friends, movies, music, oh l'amour, travel, Trawna, working girl

BEST. WEEKEND. EVER.

Here's my ten-point plan for the best weekend in months:

1. Work the dull-but-not-horrible 10 pm - 2 am shift at the pub, but no others. This ensures that only Friday night is taken up, yet money for bills will still be forthcoming.

2. Sleep in very late on Saturday morning, then stay in bed all afternoon reading a collection of Thomas Friedman essays.

3. Grab the collection of tickets to various movies at this year's Toronto International Film Festival that a well-connected friend generously gave you out of the blue. Chat with a movie-loving married couple from Philadelphia in the soothing Isabel Bader theatre while waiting for the lights to go down for "Emile," a lovely Canadian film starring Ian McKellen, Deborah Kara Unger, and the scenery of Victoria, BC. Delight in McKellen himself sitting three rows directly in front of you throughout, and the entire cast answering questions after the film.

4. Walk briskly over to Yonge Street, grabbing a cup of yogurt and a banana on the way, to get in line for your second movie of the day. Laugh with another couple at the titles of that theatre's screenings: while those with tickets for "Bright Future" can go right in, those of us there for "Sexual Dependency" have to wait. Thrill to the movie itself -- a picked-from-the-book-at-random gamble that pays off in spades with a challenging, sexy, harrowing film experience. Watch the young first-time director from Bolivia score a distribution deal with Alliance Atlantis on the spot. Grab a cup of tea and take a long stroll home on a pleasant summer night, going to bed before 1 am to prepare for a long Sunday.

5. Get up early, grab your yoga mat and head to King's College Circle at U of T, where actor Woody Harrelson hosts a massive outdoor yoga class at 10 am. Obey the instructors from Downward Dog yoga studio for ninety minutes of meditation, stretching and balancing. Realize at one point that the sun is so much hotter than the weather channel predicted but that you're enjoying the cool breeze on your back too much to care about the inevitable sunburn.

6. Race home for the fastest shower/shave ever so you're not too late to meet your friend Gil for a great lunch at the Green Mango. Thank Gil for inviting you to "Lost in Translation," the film with arguably the most buzz at this year's fest. Run into a friend from university whom you haven't seen in over a decade -- he invites you into his spot in line. Remember how you once had a useless crush on him and smile at how he remembers you fondly. Save seats down in front for him, his wife and her friend to return the spot-in-line favour.

7. Thoroughly enjoy the movie -- a melancholy, funny romance that features Bill Murray's best work since "Rushmore." Head over to the Indigo bookstore with Gil afterward to natter about the movie over juice and a sandwich.

8. Walk a mere flight upward in the Manulife centre to the Varsity theatre for your fourth film in two days -- a British, realist take on "Fight Club" called "The Principles of Lust." Feel the movie's lost main character hit a little too close to home and note that every film you've seen this weekend is in some way about the need to connect with others. Ponder how little it successfully happens in these films and less so in your own life. Wonder how you'll resolve that, while loving at how film can so often and so neatly provide a focusing lens in such a way.

9. Arrive late at the Opera House with the ticket you purchased weeks ago to see the Dandy Warhols in concert. Grumble about the lousy sound and amateurish effort by the band until you find your colleague at the record store and discover that he feels the same way. Enthuse at how both you and Thom are proven wrong once the band starts to find its footing and raise your fists in the air when the band starts to seriously rock. Marvel at how the setlist features less hit singles and songs from the new album -- which you're really enjoying -- and more of their earlier prog-rock album material which you haven't heard. This makes you love them even more. Thank Thom's bandmate and friend Kyle who buys you a beer for no reason at all and leap up and down like an idiot to "Bohemian Like You," a frickin' great song.

10. Get home late, ready for work the next morning, and spend some time applying soothing aloe vera lotion to your sun-burned body as you consider that these past two days have soothed your soul as well.

Labels: bookworm, Canada, friends, health, introspective, money - lack thereof, movies, music, Trawna, working girl

FLY ME TO THE MOON

Just got back from seeing Tony Bennett perform in the newly-refurbished Roy Thompson Hall. It's hard to convey in words the joy that radiates from this man -- he is warm and charming and thrilled to have spent a lifetime singing for people who love him in return. Listening to his stories and songs was pure pleasure. That the concert was a birthday gift for my father from Josie and me made it doubly so. The three of us had a wonderful night.

I'll go on about it a bit more later but it's off to bed -- after an early shift at the record store tomorrow, I'm off to Niagara Falls for a kitschy anniversary weekend with the boyfriend. It's been a year since that exciting weekend when I met Darcy and definitely, as he says, a "rocky" one but I'm still happy when I'm with him. Moreso when we can slip away from the city and be alone together.

Labels: family, introspective, music, oh l'amour

AFFRONT ROW

Joining my voice to the chorus of people I've listened to for two weeks now ask, "Why are concert tickets so damn expensive now?" Ten years ago, I passed up seeing Peter Gabriel at the Skydome because I thought the decent seats were too pricey at $40. Foolish me -- these days, tickets for Enrique Iglesias (and you know how little I think of him...) are selling for $120! And let's not discuss the floor seats for the Rolling Stones that sell for $300. Insanity, pure and simple.

At any rate, I'm still happy, since I snagged some OK balcony seats to Tony Bennett at Roy Thompson Hall. Tony'll be there November 22nd, the day before my dad's birthday, and that seemed like too good a coincidence to pass up. Hopefully, he'll be happy enough to make me forget that these nosebleed seats were $80 apiece!

Labels: money - lack thereof, music